


take a breath and aim

by bodtlings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: First Kiss, Gay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Shooting Guns, Shooting Range, their gay sharon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:31:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodtlings/pseuds/bodtlings
Summary: Jean's shooting scores need to improve in order for him to graduate, and who better to help him than the best marksman in the class?





	take a breath and aim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theisles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisles/gifts).



> WHATS UP DYLO it is i, dani, ur jm secret santa and also ur bffl for liffle. what’s up babe, merry christmas! i hope this is to ur liking. so sorry ur getting this later in the day but i do hope u enjoy it and i do hope we can grab drinks again soon bc ur a blast and a true delight. happy holidays love, cheers! <3
> 
> pls note that all mistakes are my own, so sorry if there are typos and other errors! lets play a game called spot the dickinson ref. 
> 
> u can find me on: [twitter](https://twitter.com/hajimetxt) // [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com)  
> u can find dylo on: [twitter](https://twitter.com/mlklzrds) // [tumblr](http://mjolklizard.tumblr.com)

Jean takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out, and tries to release the tension from his shoulders, just like Marco told him to do. It is so hard to focus with Marco standing right behind him, judging his posture, his finger placement on the rifle, his breathing. The grain-filled target twenty-five feet across the way from them in the shooting range has a titan’s face drawn on it in black marker, and Jean has yet to land a single bullet on the dummy titan. Next to it’s right arm there are two holes in the wood plank it is tied to where Jean had shot previously, missing the titan altogether.

“Relax, Jean.”  

Marco’s voice from behind him causes the absolute opposite reaction of what Marco had commanded: Jean can feel goosebumps on his arms, the hair on the back of his neck tingling, his lip automatically drawing into his mouth so he can bite it. There was no such thing as Jean relaxing around Marco, because Marco made him feel exhilarated and calm all at once; it was exhausting and exciting, but never relaxing.  

Jean bit down on his lip the moment he heard Marco’s feet shuffle closer. “Lift up your elbows, like this,” Marco instructed. Marco’s hands slid to Jean’s elbows, and Jean could feel his chest lean against his back as he moved.

Every nerve in Jean is wired to the touch, hyper-aware of where they both are, how quiet it is, how he could make out two birds flitting between the branches of a tall tree to their left and behind them. The smell of the wood from their stall at the gun range combined with Marco’s closeness drove any chance of Jean focusing into the absolute garbage.

Jean had to stop and remind himself why they were there in the first place.

 

* * *

 

Earlier in the morning, when the dining hall was starting to empty out and the dawn risers were heading to their posts for the day, Jean had walked in mumbling about final reviews for graduation. Shadis had mentioned a final round of tests on nearly everything to secure their position at their ceremony: weapon assembly, targeted shooting, and use of their harness and gear in flight were extremely important.

Their agility, teamwork, and individual determination were all being examined, and Jean was fairly confident in every section but his shooting abilities. He could assemble his weaponry and handle it with ease, but actually shooting a target was proving to be more difficult every time he practiced. He’d adjust the sight, loosen his shoulders, shake out his arms, jog in place—anything to try and get different results to no avail. His mark would either go just barely on the target or completely off; Jean’s frustration was at a tipping point, and right then he could use all the help available to him.

While the rest of the recruits were filing out of the dining hall one by one, Marco still sat in the far right corner of the room, sitting alone and with a sad-looking breakfast. An idea began to form, and before he could fully come to a conclusion, he was walking over and sitting on the bench across from his friend.

“Hey, you can shoot pretty well, right? Do you wanna teach me?”

Marco, spoon half to his lips full of the cook’s sad excuse of porridge, no longer cold and full of odd lumps, raised an eyebrow and lowered the spoon back to his bowl. “Well good morning to you, too.”

“Yeah. So what do you say?”

“Hmmm,” Marco hummed. He crossed his arms and smiled. “Alright, I don’t mind teaching you. If you’re doing to lead us one day, you’ll need to be able to shoot, I’d think.”

Jean disregarded the comment and stood up from the table, forgetting about breakfast altogether and already moving back to the door. “Meet me at the shooting range after lunch.” He left it at that, and Marco finished his lumpy food before going to reserve them a booth at the practice range. 

 

* * *

 

And that’s where we find Jean and Marco later in the day, with Marco’s experienced hands guiding Jean’s tense appendages, nervous and wired and hopelessly distracted.

"Now rest the top against the side of your chin so your line of sight can go along the barrel of the gun. What do you see?"

Jean closes his left eye and stares down the barrel of the gun as instructed, willing his concentration to remain on the face of the fake titan across the field. "I see the dummy."

"You're right here, what are you talking about?" Marco quips, and he laughs when Jean looks back at Marco to shoot him a glare. "Kidding, kidding."

"You're a riot," Jean remarks, and repositions the gun with unsure hands back to his chin. 

"Thank you, I've been told to have good humor."

Jean mumbles against the barrel, "What a load of BS."

The two are quiet for a moment as Jean finds his positioning again: feet shoulder-width apart, right forefinger resting on the wood beside the trigger, left palm holding up the gun beneath. He takes another breath, this one shakier than the last. The recoil of the rifle is something Jean despises; the first time he'd shot one, the catch hit him right on the top of his cheek and he'd been bruised for two weeks. 

But Marco has received extremely positive feedback from their superiors since they were first handed the rifles. Growing up deep in the woods, Marco came in to the military with shooting skills already honed and refined, so his scores were unmatched by all except Sasha, who has a similar background. The two have been recipients of compliments from high-ranking officials observing their class's training regimen; although Jean is having trouble focusing on the task at hand, he's making sure to keep a mental note on everything Marco has been kind enough to teach him.

"Alright. Keep your arms here, and then lower your shoulders,” Marco murmurs, hands sliding from Jean’s arms onto his shoulders and gently pushing down, willing the strained muscles to release their tension. Jean says a silent prayer to whichever gods will listen that Marco doesn’t hear his heartbeat; it’s roaring in Jean’s ears, thundering and threatening, and he takes a breath to steady it. Marco mistakes his breath to quiet his lovesick heart as a breath to help focus, and says in response, “Good, just like that.”

The praise is too much. Jean lowers the rifle and rapidly shakes his head. “Marco, I can’t, it’s not working. Let’s just call it a day and I’ll just—” His sentence is cut off because Jean had forgotten how close Marco was, and in his haste, his their lips collide. It is simultaneously a moment of pure bliss and pure horror for Jean, who has wanted this to happen for longer than he can remember, but also terrified of the aftermath. A small bout of selfishness keeps him there for longer than he should be, and then he reluctantly pulls away, fingers automatically flying to his lips.

He can’t speak. “I—Wow I’m so. Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But Maroc’s smiling. And suddenly a part of Jean feels light.

“You are very slow, Jean Kirschtein.”

All Jean can do is be confused, and he tilts his head sideways. “Sorry, what?”

Marco’s laugh is a thing with feathers—airy, warm, hopeful. “A man can only wait so long. Who knew it would happen at the shooting range.” His cheeks are becoming pink with joy, and he smirks. “You’re not very subtle when you’re staring.”

Jean’s cheeks blush in tandem, and his right hand comes to rub at the back of his neck. Mumbling and diverting his attention to the titan target bag, Jean says, “Yeah, well whose fault is that.”

“Mine, I suppose. For not saying something sooner.” Marco’s finger reaches under Jean’s chin and pulls his gaze forward to kiss him proper, just high enough away that Jean has to lean up ever so slightly.

Their time is forgotten on bullets and proper shooting posture for the rest of the evening and the days following. Jean finally learns the appropriate breathing techniques and concentration needed to graduate, making the top ten in his class at number six with Marco right next to him. He’ll still need to practice, but as Marco told him, all he has to do really is take a breath and aim.


End file.
